


wonderful things

by MayoNassey



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Gen, Horror, Jeremy Heere's Squip Takes Control of Jeremy Heere, Nightmare, Psychological Horror, Technology, Trans Jeremy Heere, feat. my most fav cut line ever im so fucking sad, i had the idea for this while i myself was havin a not cool not fun nasty time, i hope yall like some fuckin spooky time, jeremy has a not cool not fun nasty time, squip said utopia time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22584373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayoNassey/pseuds/MayoNassey
Summary: jeremy has a dream.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	wonderful things

**Author's Note:**

> alt title: jeremy gets a vibe check (and fails)

The first thing that Jeremy feels as he wakes up is the lingering feeling of a dream, thick behind his eyelids and grasping at the edges of his mind as his electric blue eyes snap open, taking a deep, deep breath through his nose. It was a disturbing dream. Lots and lots of… streets. Long and winding streets and alleys and people all running and screaming. It was… scary.

But it was just a dream.

Jeremy kicked up his feet and stood from his bed, shirtless, stretching upwards as his shoulders and spine popped one by one down his back. He shook out his wrists, pushing his hands onto his lower back and stretching further. Threading his fingers together, he popped them one by one as he moved to stand in front of the floor length mirror that he had in his room. Bright, backed in pure white LED lights, like everything else in his room.

His athletic form was looking better than it did a week ago. A regular exercise regimen does wonders to even the people who are most unconfident, most out of shape. He runs an idle finger over a long scar under his pec. It’s quickly covered by a striped shirt, light blue and grey hues wrapping nicely around his chest, a perfect fit. Then, a sleek-- yet fun-- navy blue satin jacket, in the style of a varsity jacket, embroidered in white. Jeremy runs a hand through his hair, tucking it away into a form thats casual, fun, easy to look at and easier to maintain. His chest swells slightly with confidence, before he leaves the room. The pattern on the back of his jacket is white circuitry. 

The stairs creak plesantly as Jeremy hops down, one foot at a time, playfully. He hits the floor with both feet, looking up from his personal little game. 

“Hi dad!” He greets to a man standing in the kitchen. He is wearing a pair of pants. Of course, along with a clean looking sweater and a colourful, printed design shirt underneath. He turns around, a twinkle in those brilliant blue eyes of his. 

“Hey sport! Headed off to school?” He has a frying pan in hand. There are eggs inside of the frying pan. Easy over mediuml. Perfectly cooked.

“Hah-- yeah, Michael wanted to hang out before class, so I thought I should head out earlier than normal.” His backpack, devoid of graffiti or hateful markings, was hanging on the bannister. Jeremy quickly slipped it over his strong shoulders, the weight feeling even and comfortable across them.

“Seeya, dad!”

“Knock em dead, son!”

Jeremy strode out of the house, passing by an empty umbrella stand, a coathanger. For a moment, the world is dark. Its night. Its cold. Its a memory.

Its Jeremy’s dream. 

In this moment, this dream, in the exact same place, Jeremy is marching out of his house. It is dark, it is night. In one hand, a backpack. In the other, a crushed bottle, discarded swiftly behind him. Mountain Dew Livewire, the last few orange drops splittering across the carpet.

As he leaves the house, it is day again, and Jeremy is headed to school. His shoulders are back, his smile is confident, his hands are in his pockets, his music is playing in his ears. The surroundings are dull, yet bright in their own way. The people are what make them important, and the people seem to be just as bright as he is. The woman walking her dog is on the phone, happily chittering away. (For a moment, it is night. The woman is staring at Jeremy.)

Further down the street is the plot of land where Jake’s house used to be. It was turned into a community garden! Oh, Jake, despite his original strife at the tragedy, thinks the garden was a pretty cool compromise. He’s trying to advocate for a playground too, seeing as though its *his* plot of land, legally. Something tells Jeremy that the playground will come soon, he’s sure of it. A few people are standing in this garden, shovels in hand, chatting away. (For a moment, one is holding a child to her chest, her wife standing ahead of her, shoulders raised, staring.)

He lets go of a satisfied breath from his nose, readjsuting his posture and continuing forward to school. He reaches the front gates with ease and relative efficiency, barely disturbed by the swift pace of his walk. His hands wrap around the straps of his backpack and tug encouragingly, as he stares up at the refurbished walls of Middleborough High. There are people, too, students all parking their bikes and finding a spot for their cars. Jeremy lingers outside of the parking lot for an instant, furrowing his brows and squinting slightly, before spotting--

A PT Cruiser! Old and silver and beat up and well-loved (for a moment, the windows are rolled down), covered in nerdy stickers, it’s a stark indicator that the boy he’s looking for is further inside, waiting for him. I mean, why wouldn’t he be? Michael is his best friend! They always got eachother’s back.

Pushing open the doors to the school with a shoulder, Jeremy looks up at the flags that decorate the cafetorium. The flags of the world, along with a few new pride flags added in. It’s always nice to see when you walk in. This unity.

Jeremy is pulled from his musing as Amanda Olsen waves! Ah, Jeremy knows her! She sits next to him in biology! He reciprocates her happy greeting. Kara Watterson, English class. Hello! Bartholomew Elle. Math. Hello! He rubs his neck, aww, so many people seem excited to see him! (For a moment, they aren’t.)

Hmm, now where could Michael possibly be? Its worth a shot checking out the new and improved, upgraded drama room! Yes, that’s always a good bet, Michael’s part of the new tech crew, after all! Jeremy’s white, embroidered shoes squeak on the polished linoleum floors as he half-jogs his way to the aforementioned room.

Ah, look at this place!! What an IMPROVEMENT from the blackbox style stage they had before. They’re hanging up new curtains as we speak! The rest of the school still seems a little unpolished, because the PAC association found it necessary to improve the fine art first, especially the department in charge of the annual school play. I mean, if they wanna follow up what was considered the best play in years, they have to do so in style.

Jeremy took a quick scan around the room, analyzing each person present to him. He didn’t SEE Michael nearby, and he got a strange feeling that he wouldn’t be in any of the backstage areas. After all, hiding in there never worked for him. Never has. Never will.

Sorry, what? Jeremy had lost his train of thought. Shaking his head, with half a shrug, he was off again, marching proudly through the cafetorium itself. A few earlier kids waved to him, as Jeremy sheepishly shrugged at the attention. (For a moment, they aren’t waving. In fact, they aren’t staying put at all. They’re running.)

Jeez, where is this kid? Its almost like he doesn’t wanna meet up at all! Jeremy’s gonna check the library next, and if he isn’t there, he’s gonna text him. And if texting him doesn’t work, he's got other ways of finding his good pal. 

The hallways part like a sea as he enters them, the idle traffic moving aside just enough to allow him a natural passage. Jeremy strides through, head held high and a grateful smile on his face. 

(For a moment, the lights in this hall are off. The students around him all face forward, blank and vacant stares. The only trace of emotion is on Jeremy himself, brilliant blue eyes providing light, his neon blue smile leading the way. He is leading them down a hall. Towards something.)

His hand, lightly coated in thin, white scars, push open the door to the library. His eyes scan the area-- finding nothing. He lets out a huff of air from his nose, the side of his mouth scrunching into a well-meant sneer of slight annoyance. It wasn’t that big of a deal, honestly. He jsut kinda wishes Michael were more clear with his directions.

Jeremy heads down the hall, hands in his pockets, actively searching for Michael. He’s scanning the halls for the people inside of them. Mason Matthews. Corey Multiier. Theodore Evans. Michael Mell.

Wait. Michael.

His eyes refocused as he spotted Michael-- he was standing outside! He could see the red jacket through the clouded glass of the metal doors leading to the back lot of the school.

Jeremy heads through the doors. (For a moment, so does his army.)

Michael stands, leaning casually against the wall of the school. His sweater, iconic and patch-covered, has been altered slightly to allow for a zipper down the front, turning it into an easy to wear outfit accent. Now all he needs is a grey t-shirt underneath, and he’s good to go! His jacket is unzipped, revealing a battered NASA logo on a pale grey shirt. (For a moment, his jacket has no zipper, as he backs away from Jeremy.)

“Michael!” Jeremy greets, quickly wrapping his arms around him. Michael jumps for a moment at the sudden sound and contact, carefully reciprocating the embrace as to not spill his green (red) slushie across Jeremy (the pavement). He pulls back, a bright and sheepish smile across his face, reaching his neon blue eyes.

“How have you BEEN, man! Jeez, it feels like i have to kidnap you in order to talk to you one on one nowadays. You’re so BUSY, dude. Not like thats a bad thing.” He shrugs, the straw of his slushie eventually finding its way into his mouth.

“I-- yeah, I’m real sorry about that. But like-- You know how it is, right? It’s a whole--”

Michael raises a hand, finishing a long sip. “No no, i get it! I get it, Heere, you’re totally fine! Don’t worry about making time to spend with me, I’m not the number one priority.” 

Jeremy’s shoulders sink in relief. He moves to lean against the wall with Michael.  
“So what did you wanna talk about? We have some time.”

Michael deliberates on his question, before looking towards Jeremy.

“So what’s it like, Mr. Hive King?”

(For a moment, it’s night. Outside of the school, it is silent. Then, chaos, as Michael bursts out the side of the school from those very same doors, terror and fear in his deep brown eyes, scrambling to his feet and regaining balance as he staggers into the parking lot. He looks up at his surroundings. He spots silhouettes standing at distances, each with blinding blue eyes. One is at the fenced off exit of the field. Two are standing at the entrance to the parking lot. One is standing near the cafetorium doors. He’s trapped.)

The straw lingers near his mouth again. “Ya know, making everything better.”

Jeremy pauses for a moment, glancing down at the concrete. This question was weird to answer. Why was it weird. It-- uh...

He glances up at Michael, quickly regaining his nerves. “Oh man, it’s uh-- its a lot of responsibility, firstly, but it’s totally worth it to make everything… well, better!”

(Jeremy stands powerful, backlit by the faint light of the army’s eyes. He steps out of the school in those same white shoes, a rising, delicious feeling in his chest, that cinches around his neck, curling his mouth into a smile that glows from the inside. He holds a bottle, and a pill. The army begins to surround the pair.)

“Way to be specific, dude. You sound like-- fuckin, Spider-Man. Your uncle die?” He lets out a chuckle, but for some reason, the half-morbid joke doesn’t cause the same laugh from Jeremy. The joke was kinda funny. Why didn’t he laugh?

“I’m sorry for being-- eh-- fussy. About it.” Michael interjected Jeremy’s self-inspection. He takes another sip. Jeremy has a creeping incertanty. The slushie. Its green. His favourite isn’t green.

“Fussy about what, Mike.” Jeremy asks, half confused, half accusatory.

“The whole thing. The--” Michael taps the side of his head.

(Jeremy taps the side of his head, marching closer to a petrified Michael, held down by strong hands belonging to their classmates. Kara, Bartholomew, Mason. He’s struggling so hard to get out of their grip, but his head is held fast by hands on his neck, jaw, forehead. Jeremy draws closer, the bottle opening with a fizz. Michael’s mouth is forced open. He’s crying.)

Jeremy’s face falls. He blinks, looking Michael over. His sweater-- what happened to his sweater, it doesn’t have a zipper… His headphones have no cord. Jeremy takes a step back, a half shuffle. He doesn’t understand.

“It’s… fine. You didn’t know any better. I forgive you, Mike.” The words came out of his mouth faster than he could understand their meaning. Michael didn’t do anything wrong. Why is he giving forgiveness?

“Knew you would.” Michael smiled again. He stared out at the empty parking lot, straw in his mouth. He blinks.

(Michael’s throat burns as his instincts force him to swallow, his nose plugged, mouth forced shut. The only thing he can see in this trapped state is Jeremy, the shell of Jeremy staring down at its new creation.)

“I’m sorry.” Jeremy spoke, hand touching his own throat.

Michael looked up, confused. “Ffffffor what?”

“Hurting you.” These words felt better. Felt right.

“You-- Jeremy, you didn’t hurt me. I’m fine! I’m like, better than i was before. Not left out. Not unsure.” Michael smiled. Wide. Blue.

Jeremy did not smile. He took a few steps back, looking at his jacket, his shirt. He blinks, and they are dark in the shade. He looks up, and Michael is trapped in a sea of arms and hands and eyes, taking a gasp of desperate air. He is let go, and Jeremy steps back, fearful. 

Michael regains balance, and he stands to meet Jeremy’s horrified and shaking gaze with his own streamlined, perfect, even one.

[Hello, Jeremy.] He says.

[Thank you for saving me.]

The sky has no stars. They are all here, in the glowing eyes of Jeremy’s army.

[You’ve made us perfect.]

Jeremy sits up in bed, his back soaked in a cold patch of sweat. His hands are shaking, his face has acne, his joints don’t pop perfectly, his body is imperfectly pudgy. His hands tear the covers off of his wrists, finding no thin white scars across his fingers. He looks at the contents of his wire trash can. There is no bottle.

Jeremy is left alone in the early darkness of his bedroom, with nothing but the lingering images of his dream,  
and a single phrase. 

It was an electric lament, filled with genuine sorrow and regret. Almost a longing, a sigh of sadness from something obsolete left inside his mind. Of what might have been.

They’re quiet, yet powerful, and they’re held in Jeremy’s mind like a heavy cancer.

[It could have been wonderful.]


End file.
